


Legacy

by frankie_31



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emma Lives, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29622486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: Emma doesn’t die.Not in any way that matters.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Legacy

Emma doesn’t die. 

Not in any way that matters. 

Amazons don’t live like men or beasts. The blood of Ares runs through their veins, hot and bright like molten gold. The lead and copper bullet that cracks into her sternum—the killing thing— it disintegrates on the impenetrable armor of her immortal soul. 

But she falls. And her heart stops. And her lungs deflate. And the blood, hot and bright like molten gold, cools and pools and hardens under her skin where her body meets the floor. 

Emma dies. 

Emma is taken to a morgue. 

Emma is laid on a metal gurney and prepared for dissection. A dead girl with no identification in a basement that has contained countless dead girls with no identification. Thirty six hours is not long enough to become a person. It’s not long enough to become anything but dead. 

But Emma is not a person. Emma is an Amazon. And she is not held by an angel’s whimsy to bring her up to Heaven nor on the chilled grasp of Purgatory’s endless forest. Emma is an Amazon and she is blessed by the Gods. 

Hebe visits her sixteen hours after her body has grown cold. Hebe, goddess of childhood. Of eternal youth.

Of mercy. 

Hebe stretches down through the chilled steel of the morgue lockers and presses a tender kiss to Emma’s head. The love of a mother, the love of a father, the love of a goddess—It flutters. It warms. It lives. 

Emma lives. 

Emma punctures the steel of her ice locker and peels back the metal walls. 

She lands on strong calves, on strong legs. Her blood, hot and bright like molten gold, runs through her veins. Hebe gives her a second gift, an ivory chiton and a pair of sturdy sandals. 

There is a lesson in death. A clarification, perhaps. A gift. 

Freedom. 

Emma’s death has given her the freedom to leave the blood-drenched legacy of her mother and aunts and sisters. And the freedom to leave her destiny back on the flea-bitten carpet she died on.

The freedom to avenge herself. 

The freedom to forgive. 

The freedom to learn that the world is not simply blood and brands and guns and salt and fire. 

Emma doesn’t die and she dies and she lives and she’s freed. 

She walks the forests of Washington first. 

She finds love in the tender sprouts of the moss beneath her feet. She finds strength in the redwood canopy above her head. She finds gentleness in the wisps of mist tangling around her ankles. She finds laughter in the fox kits playing. She finds herself in the rain, thundering like war and drizzling like honey. 

When she leaves the comfort of the woods, she finds the sea. And when she tires of sailing, she finds the desert. And when she’s tired of motion, she finds a quiet home in the still countryside. She raises goats and chickens and a garden. She finds a wife and, decades and decades later, a husband. 

She births a child.

The legacy Emma passes down is not of blood or brands. It’s not of guns or salt or fire. It is the creeping mist and the sleek grey of a dolphin leaping. It is the shimmer of quartz in the desert. The eyelashes of a beloved spring calf. 

Emma dies.

Emma lives forever. 

**Author's Note:**

> Emma deserved better. Nuff said.


End file.
